Victor Rex
by MS-16 Z Jaeger
Summary: Victory is not always fulfilling. At times, it feels hollow and pointless. At times, it does not feel beautiful. A Sith muses on his existence and the nature of the conflict between the Jedi and Sith.


Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars

Victor Rex

A tremor took hold of the planet. Born of death, it shook the foundations of the world to its core. Light shown forth from the corpse like the coattails of angels as the energy made a mad dash to escape the now useless vessel, to rejoin with the larger Force. The body writhed and twisted as the energies that had once powered it when it was alive now left it, tossing the conduit aside as a diner throws away the scraps.

The task finished, the body now lay motionless, its eyes unseeing as they stared out from a feminine face marred with cuts and burns. The brown and beige robes were singed and burned, with a large, ugly streak of black cutting across the human female's upper torso. It was unfitting, it was not _beautiful_. And that irked him so.

Above the dead Jedi Master's corpse stood the harbinger of her demise. Dressed in black robes darker than the void, with a flat featureless mask covering his face the wraith regarded the corpse. Even in death, the Jedi would not do what he wanted. He wanted each kill to be beautiful, a work of art, a statement that death was not something to be feared but admired, as one would admire a sunset. It should be the most beautiful moment of a being's life, and yet the Jedi, as always, had managed to do the opposite.

He smirked at the thought. Was that not what they always were, opposites? Their orders had clashed since time immemorial, igniting that thing known as war countless times. He could not remember a time when there had been peace, if such a thing could truly exist between angels and demons.

But that was as it should be. Peace was an illusion, born from weak minds in a feeble attempt to brighten the world. Inwardly he snorted. Peace would only be obtained when both orders were naught but ash and dust, consumed by the flames of their own design as they hurdled towards Armageddon.

An unending paradox, as it were.

Each conflict between their orders was capable of destroying the galaxy, yet at the same time it was necessary. It maintained balance, it prevented one side from gaining too much power. At the same time it was only natural. After all, the brighter a light grew the darker the shadows it created, while a candle only became more intense the darker it became. Lives were lost, civilizations cast aside like child's toys, but was it truly wrong? Conflict engendered progress after all, and he would much rather live in a world of never ending progress than a stale existence where everything was complete.

He believed that this was the ideal form of existence, to be locked in a never ending, eternal conflict surrounded by beautiful death. It was like death, perpetual, beautiful, everlasting. He had gone so far as to name himself to this belief. Darth Aeternamis, the eternal Sith Lord (for he would live for a long, long time) who preferred unending conflict over stability and saw beauty in death.

Thinking of death brought him back to the Jedi Master's corpse. Now that he thought about it, the conditions surrounding the manner of her death and the nature of their rivalry echoed the nature of the relationship between the Sith and Jedi as a whole. As the Sith advanced and grew in strength, the Jedi would become more and more desperate. They would grow wild, fight unpredictably, in a word, they would become _uninteresting_.

What was worse, in his eyes, they would refuse to accept their inevitable death for the truly beautiful thing it was. They would resist to the end, forcing the Sith to use whatever methods lay before them to dispose of the nuisance, resulting in a perversion of death, a cheap imitation that was nothing more than slaughter and destruction that left no beauty to be observed. Only desolation and ashes.

That was not what he desired from conflict; wholesale slaughter for the sake of it was pointless. It had to lead to a goal, it had to be beautiful, for conflict to truly have any worth. He refused to partake in conflict if it was not to further a goal or had no beauty, such a thing was beneath him.

He wondered when death would come for him at last. Would his death be beautiful? Would it be a perfect moment that would be everlasting, just as his name was? Or would it be of a baser nature, the cheap imitation that had befallen his latest victim?

He bowed his head as he murmured a short apology to his erstwhile rival. He had robbed her of her most beautiful moment, unable to give her the death that she deserved. Such a thing was shameful. If not giving her a beautiful death, then at least allowing the Jedi to make his death beautiful.

He had respected the woman whose face had once been beautiful. Unlike her fellow Jedi she had not retreated to meditations and had instead, like a true warrior, taken up the sword to fight. He had admired that about her, it had made her a worthy opponent to him, made her stand out from the sea of brown and beige robes with those infuriatingly serene faces. While everyone deserved for their death to be beautiful, she had deserved it the most.

He turned as he felt a disturbance in the distance. There stood a massive building upon the apex of which a pair of titans clashed. The Jedi Grand Master and the Sith Emperor represented all of the things he saw wrong with the two sides. The Grand Master refused to accept the beauty of death and fought back uncaring for the damage to his fellows and surroundings. The Emperor on the other hand was indiscriminate, propagating the cheap imitation of death that Aeternamis so hated and leaving behind naught but ashes and dust.

He observed as the two clashed, their battle reaching a fever pitch. Soon it would all end.

Personally Aeternamis hoped this would not be the case. There was still purpose and beauty to be found in the conflict, and it would be disappointing to see it ended early.

His hopes were for naught as the Jedi Grand Master, seeing the inevitability of his defeat, committed his final act against the Sith Emperor.

He watched in mute fascination as the Jedi poured all of his power into a tightly packed orb. The orb pulsated as the energies contained within swirled about with all their destructive purpose. It was energy born of the light, but its purpose was anything but.

A tremor took hold of the planet. As the Jedi unleashed his spell against his foes the world shattered as it and everything on it were consumed, leaving only dust and ashes.

Aeternamis closed his eyes as the Jedi once again acted as they usually did. In order to destroy the Sith they would destroy the galaxy if need be.

It was not _beautiful_. It was filthy, ugly, pointless. Did they not see? The conflict of their two orders was inevitable and natural, why could they not accept that?

He opened his eyes to stare resolutely at the wall of light speeding, clawing, dashing its way toward him. Disgusting.

It seemed that like his rival, his death would not be beautiful. He would only experience a cheap imitation.

As he was consumed, Aeternamis despaired.

* * *

Author's Note: Typed this up after sudden burst of inspiration. I don't really know where this came from, and as I did it on the spot it might not be all that up to par.

On a side note, this marks my first one-shot.

Either way, tell me what you think, criticisms are most welcome! As long as they are constructive, that is.

Til next time.


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